Dear Myrtle
by StellaBlue29
Summary: Fifteen years pass, and Olive Hornby is not the same. [2017 Golden Chalice Award for Best One-Shot / 2016 Keckers Runner-up for Most Original Fic]


**1939**

"Olive, darling, something happened to Spot." Her mother looks her right in the eyes, thin lines above her eyebrows like a stave of discordant music. One of her hands over Olive's small one. "Spot was sick, as you know, and he died during the night."

Olive hangs her head, frowning at the yellow ruffles on her dress. It's not _fair._ Spot was the best dog, and had been around ever since Olive can remember in her ten years of life.

"Spot had a happy life," says her mother. "And now he's not suffering anymore."

"Do dogs go to Heaven?" Olive wonders aloud.

"Well, that's a lovely thought." Her mother offers a smile.

"Don't you think while he's there he can figure out a way to come back here with us?"

The smile on her mother's face falters a bit, and then a voice calls from the living room, and both Olive and her mother look up. They hear the sound of hurried footsteps approaching. "Ethel, have you seen the news yet?"

Olive's father arrives in the doorway, a forgotten crumbly pillar of ash still dangling from the cigarette in his right hand, and in his left hand a crisp white newspaper with large bold letters shouting from the front of it. _BRITAIN & FRANCE AT WAR WITH GERMANY_.

It means very little to Olive, who just wants her dog back. She'd give anything to play fetch in the garden with him again. Instead, she sits alone on the step, looking out onto an empty lawn.

War? But everything feels the same as yesterday, only without Spot.

 **1940**

"Ravenclaw!"

The last girl to be Sorted, Myrtle Warren, sets the Hat back on the stool and trips down the steps to the Ravenclaw table, taking a seat just beside Olive, who finally tears her gaze away from the enchanted ceiling and the candles – floating in the air with nothing to hold them there!

"Hello," says Olive amiably. "My name's Olive."

Myrtle watches her for a second through large blue eyes before responding. "Hello."

"Did you know anything about magic before you got the letter?" Olive inquires. How many people are like her? The three people she sat with on the train had grown up knowing all about magic, and Olive hoped that someone else here shared her past of being a Muggle, as they called it.

"No," says Myrtle. "Did you?"

Olive clings to that word, a symbol of their shared circumstances. "No. It's all new to me too."

Myrtle finally smiles. "Do you want to be friends?"

"Of course!"

 **1941**

 _Dear Myrtle,_

 _Hope you're having a good summer. We have a new dog and her name is Lady. I think Rowena would have been a better name but Mum already named her by the time I got home._

 _I've heard what's happening to Jewish people on the Continent and I'm scared. If Hitler comes for my family I'm going to greet him with a Boils Potion and maybe some Devil's Snare. I hope we learn about more dangerous spells and potions next year, because you never know when you'll need them. How I wish we could practise magic at home._

 _What do you think of your new book?_

 _Love,_  
 _Olive_

 **1942**

 _Dear Myrtle,_

 _My Gran and Gramps disappeared. The Nazis got them. I never had a chance to say goodbye or tell them I loved them, and all I want is to be able to see them again. But everyone knows what happens when you disappear. You don't come back. Why can't they come back, it isn't fair!_

 _Miss you already. (I always miss Hogwarts when I'm at home, and I miss home when I'm at Hogwarts.)_  
 _Olive_

* * *

 _Dear Myrtle,_

 _Ugh, you really don't understand. Ghosts aren't the same, even the Hogwarts ones. Grow up._

 _I'll see you in September._

 _Olive_

* * *

"You didn't respond to my last letter," says Myrtle as she sits down next to Olive at the Welcome Feast. "I said I was sorry! I was only trying to make you feel better!" Her eyes are brimming with tears.

Olive ducks her head. "Well, I was upset."

"I am really sorry about what happened to your grandparents, though. Your family can come hide with mine if you ever need to."

"Thanks," says Olive. "You're a good friend." But she doesn't have much else to say. She still misses them, and clings tightly to her last memory of Gran and Gramps, at her bat mitzvah ceremony over the summer.

To her left, Thelma whispers to Betty, and a few words drift over to Olive's ears. A party tonight. That will take her mind off things, won't it? So she turns to face her roommate. "A party? Where?" she asks, and Thelma looks up, surprised.

Thelma shares a glance with Betty, and then tells Olive, "One of the classrooms downstairs." She arches an eyebrow. "I didn't think _you_ were the type to go to a party, Olive. I thought you'd just be studying with Myrtle."

Is that what people think of her? That she can't have any fun? "No, of course not!" She feels like she has to prove her worth. "Reading is such a bore. I'd love to go."

"Well, they don't invite just anyone," says Betty. Her eyes dart over to Myrtle, who has a book on her lap as she eats her mashed potatoes.

Olive figures that Myrtle wouldn't want to go anyway; she tends to prefer books over people – she's always curled up with a book, reading by wandlight in the dark, even though Thelma warns her it's bad for her eyesight. She wouldn't enjoy a party. But Olive would, so she lowers her voice so Myrtle can't hear, and tells Betty and Thelma, "I don't want to just sit around with Myrtle." And they seem satisfied; Olive has passed the test, and can go to the party with them. But maybe she'll sit around and talk about books with Myrtle after.

 **1943**

"Well, aren't you so grown up," says Myrtle glumly, watching Olive through new eyeglasses over the top of her thick tome. Olive spares her a quick glance, and then returns her focus to the small round mirror in her hand and the task of applying her new crimson lipstick.

"That makes your lips much too red, like blood," says Myrtle. She's still sulking on her bed, her face a setting sun half obscured behind _Alchemy, Ancient Art and Science_.

"Stop it, Myrtle," says Betty with a roll of her eyes. "Leave poor Olive alone and go back to your reading. Isn't that why you got those dreadful new glasses?"

Myrtle blushes, snatching off the offending eyewear, and lifts the book to conceal her entire face.

Olive sighs, looking nervously between Betty and Myrtle, and then, as the row seems to be over, continues telling Betty and Thelma about the new jazz record she just got during Hanukkah. "The Glenn Miller Orchestra is brilliant," she says. "Oh, how I wish wizards had gramophones too! Think how swell the Hogwarts parties would be with big band jazz."

Myrtle scoffs from behind her book. Olive scowls.

"I've heard of them," says Thelma. "They sound just delightful."

"They sound like just a bunch of _noise_ ," says Myrtle.

"What do you think of Myrtle's new glasses, Olive?" asks Betty.

And Olive can't explain why she does it – maybe she's fed up with Myrtle's moods as of late, or her constant criticism of Olive trying to look more grown up, or she's still trying to get Betty and Thelma to include her in things – but her words are barbed and meant to hurt. "They're dreadful," she says, echoing Betty, who giggles. "They make you look like an insect."

Myrtle slams her book shut, leaps off her bed and barricades herself in the bathroom. Olive tries not to hear the sound of crying, but it's no use, and guilt envelops her like a cloud. She looks up at Betty and Thelma uncertainly, and then returns to fixing her lipstick.

* * *

"Are you in here again, sulking, Myrtle?" Olive asks. They'd had another row only this morning, as has been increasingly common these past few months, and this time even Headmaster Dippet saw it. "Because Professor Dippet asked me to look for you."*

But when she opens the door of the bathroom, Myrtle is lying on the floor, unmoving, her glassy eyes staring at the ceiling. Olive's heart turns to lead, and her throat seizes up. The only sound is the faint drip-drip-drip of one of the sink taps, and it accentuates the roaring silence.

"M – Myrtle?" she says, but it's scarcely more than a whisper. "What happened?" She reaches out a tentative hand to touch her friend's arm.

Out of nowhere, a loud shriek scares Olive so much that she jumps and hits the back of her head against the wall, her arm recoiling away from Myrtle. Searching for the source of the noise, Olive turns to face the doorway to one of the cubicles, where there floats a pearly double of Myrtle. This time it's Olive who screams; heart pounding, she whirls around towards the exit, clawing at the door handle before Myrtle's ghost can get to her. But Myrtle, screeching, goes right through her, and waits for her outside the bathroom door.

Olive crumples to the ground in hysterics, shivering, her arms shielding her head, while Myrtle floats in mid-air in front of her – close enough that Olive cowers in fear of her personal space being violated again.

"Are you sorry you laughed at my glasses?" Myrtle sounds positively gleeful.

 **1945**

The long-awaited end of the war comes at last. Elsewhere, the Dark wizard Grindelwald has been defeated by Olive's Transfiguration professor. And today, Olive's brother Irving is getting married. To Olive, it feels as if clouds are parting, weight is lifting, it's a new chapter. The trouble of the past six years is behind her.

But it's not. The only thing behind her when she makes her way upstairs to change into her blue dress is the ghost of Myrtle Warren. A gasp escapes Olive's throat when she sees her former friend floating there, still haunting her after two whole years, a dark blot on the first page of her new chapter.

"What are you doing here, Myrtle?" she cries. This far from Hogwarts? Will she never escape Myrtle's ghost, or have a minute of peace in her life?

"Olive, are you all right?" asks a concerned voice. And then, a scream. Other people have seen Myrtle; people who aren't used to seeing ghosts. How dare Myrtle come to a Muggle wedding to haunt her like this and ruin everything?

She finds it very difficult to remember being eleven and missing Myrtle over the summer. Now her thoughts of Myrtle range from annoyance to terror. Myrtle has gone too far, Olive thinks as a gaggle of wedding guests shrieks at Myrtle swooping right through them. This needs to end, and as soon as she leaves the wedding today, Olive will go to the Ministry of Magic and demand a restraining order on Myrtle's ghost.

 **1947**

 _Dear Myrtle,_

 _I am so sorry for what I did to you. I was cruel and I deeply regret it – more than anything I have ever regretted. Please forgive me. I don't know what else I can say._

 _Your old friend,_  
 _Olive_

"I have this for you," says Olive, holding out the folded letter and setting it on the counter of the bathroom Myrtle occupies these days – the same one in which she died.

"I can't _read_ that," wails Myrtle. "Playing practical jokes on dead Myrtle? And you said it was me who had to grow up."

"I'm sorry," says Olive. "Never mind the letter, I guess I'll just talk." She sighs, resigned; after all, she had wanted this to be only a brief visit.

But Myrtle cannot be consoled. "I can't read _anything_ anymore, you know. My hands go right through if I try to turn a page. That's the worst part of being a ghost. My favourite pastime in the world, and I can't do it."

"Have you tried gliding through the bookshelves in the library?" Olive suggests, and Myrtle wails.

"It's not a joke, Olive! You're so _mean_."

Olive wishes the wall would swallow her up. She can't stand this. It's been four years, and while Olive has grown up, Myrtle has remained the miserable, lonely fourteen-year-old she was when she died. And that's what she always will be. She's stuck like this, doomed to remain miserable and fourteen for eternity.

"I just came by to say I'm sorry," Olive mutters.

"You should be," says Myrtle. "You'll never have to suffer what I suffer. I'm going to be alone in this toilet forever."

That's enough – Olive can't take any more reminders of what she has doomed Myrtle to. So she leaves. Myrtle's sobs echo off the tiles, chasing Olive out the door.

 **1950**

She has just turned twenty-one, and has finally agreed to get her eyes checked after months of her fiancé Victor's nagging. The optometrist makes small talk while he asks Olive to look through various lenses, and when she returns later, she is given her own pair of glasses.

Olive puts on her new lenses, and looks up to see a new world of sharp outlines. Looking back at her from a wall mirror is a pale face surrounded by black wavy hair, so well-defined that even the wisps escaping her bun are in perfect clarity. And brown eyes staring at her through lenses in the shape of slanted teardrops.

It's hard enough to see this in her memory; she cannot face it every time she looks in the mirror. No, the blurry, muddled alternative was better.

Olive clumsily grabs the eyeglasses off of her face and leaves them on the table when she walks out.

 **1951**

 _Dear Myrtle,_

 _Once, I pitied you, knowing the half-life that awaited you until the end of time. But I no longer feel sorry for you, because you're dead, and you'll never change, and my pity for you hasn't accomplished anything._

 _Now I only feel sorry for myself. Because although you're unable to physically follow me anymore, you've never stopped haunting me. You know I have trouble letting go of the past – after all, here I am writing letters to you that I'll never send – and your death will hang over me as a weight on my conscience for the rest of my life._

 _For nine years I've had to keep living with the knowledge that I killed you._

 _Olive_

 **1953**

 _Dear Myrtle,_

 _I finally did get glasses – I can almost hear you laughing at the irony of this, if you knew. It's still new to me, and I can't face myself in a mirror yet, but I think, in addition to improving my poor vision, this change will eventually help me move forward._

 _Sometimes I wonder if you have forgiven me. Truthfully, I don't think you have. But I hope you do – eternity is a long time to go with a chip on your shoulder. As for me, I still have a long way to go to forgive myself. But I've come a long way._

 **1954**

 _Dear Myrtle,_

 _We ended up quite similar, didn't we. Both of us just sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves, not able to get over the past._

 _But I can do it. I'm letting go._

 _I know you will never think fondly of me again, because you're the same person you were when you died, and you were angry with me on that day. But I have changed. I am glad we were friends for the time we had – you were my best friend for two years – and I sincerely do wish you the best._

 _Love,_  
 _Olive._

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks so much for reading! I am still in shock that this story won second in the Writer's Duel among so many amazing stories by other talented authors.**

 **Last but not least, a disclaimer: Olive's line of dialogue before she finds Myrtle (marked with a *) is from** **_Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_** **, chapter 25 'The Egg and the Eye'.**


End file.
